


We Remain

by sniper_wolf



Category: Haikyuu!!, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Angst, Blood and Violence, M/M, Minor Character Death, Rating will go up, i mean what do you expect it's the hunger games, kageyama starts as an icy bitch, kenma-centric but other characters get chapters, more tags will be added, oikawa is pretty sadistic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-02-19 05:40:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 18,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2376839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sniper_wolf/pseuds/sniper_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kenma never looked forward to the Reapings. No one did, is what he inferred from anyone who was old enough to understand the consequences – unless you were one of the hopeless idealists from the first three districts. Because if your name was pulled, you would die. Only one tribute out of twenty-four would survive. The odds were never in anyone’s favor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I present to you the AU that no one asked for but the AU you're getting nonetheless~

Kenma never looked forward to the Reapings. No one did, is what he inferred from anyone who was old enough to understand the consequences – unless you were one of the hopeless idealists from the first three districts. Because if your name was pulled, you would die. Only one tribute out of twenty-four would survive. The odds were never in anyone’s favor.

He was pushed into the courtyard by crowds of anxious adults, clutching the hands of their children, praying that their kid’s name wouldn’t be drawn. Praying for it to be a teen standing next to them. Kenma was no different. He squeezed his mother’s hand. His name was only in the drawing five times. Statistically, he shouldn’t be picked. But the Reaping had never been about statistics.

This was Kenma’s fifth year living in District 5. Before, he lived with his mother and father in District 1, experiencing all the benefits of having a former Hunger Games victor as a father. They got whatever they wanted and needed, and his father was treated like a hero – especially since he coached the new tributes every year. For – Kenma had to count – eight years now. His father hated it. From a young age Kenma had been drilled with the belief that the Capitol was evil. The Hunger Games were evil. It was _not_ a game, and sooner or later, a rebellion had to happen. The problem was, no one wanted to lead a resistance movement. Not when they got shut down so often, not when it meant certain death. _We just haven’t had one big enough_ , his father would say.

Arata Kozume was not that leader. Once, perhaps – but not with a family, not with Kenma and his mother. His small acts of defiance were enough; more than enough. It was a passing, anti-Capitol comment made to the public that resulted in Kenma and his mother being ripped away from him five years ago. Honestly, thinking of it now, Kenma was lucky to be alive. The simple fact that the government hadn’t killed his whole family was a miracle. Arata must be too important to them.

“Kenma,” his mother whispered, giving his had a squeeze, “we’ll be fine. Just like every year. Don’t worry so much.”

They had only taken extra grain once, during a bad winter, and out of complete necessity. Kenma’s mother was loathe to have his name in the drawing more than absolutely necessary. Though he never voiced her thoughts directly, Kenma gathered that she was frightened the Capitol would draw him on purpose, just to destroy his father. A very, very plausible idea.

Kenma Kozume is not a brave man. His palms gathered sweat in the crevasses as the District 5 escort stepped up to the platform. His stature resembled that of a scarecrow, as Capitol fashion seemed to encourage. Kenma never bothered to learn his name. A silence swept over the crowd, tense and palpable.

“Good morning, District 5, and welcome to the Reaping for the 75th annual Hunger Games!” He flashed a brilliant smile at the unresponsive crowd. “As you know, this year will be a Quarter Quell game, which means there will be a twist! If you recall, it was announced last week – the tribute pool will not be divided by gender. Additionally, volunteers will not be accepted this year. Those who are pulled are those who are competing in the Games. But before we get to the Reaping – a message from the Capitol!”

Like all the previous years, a large screen covered the space behind the platform. It flickered to life, and the same message that played every year began.

“War. Terrible war. Widows, orphans, a motherless child.” Images of starving children and crying mothers flashed across the screen, followed by a formation of soldiers marching. “This was the uprising that rocked our land. Thirteen districts rebelled against the country that fed them, loved them, protected them. Brother turned on brother until nothing remained. And then came the peace, hard fought, sorely won. A people rose up from the ashes and a new era was born. But freedom has a cost. When the traitors were defeated we swore as a nation that we would never know this treason again. And so it was decreed that each year the various districts of Panem would offer up in tribute one young man and woman to fight to the death in a pageant of honor, courage, and sacrifice. The lone victor, bathed in riches, would serve as a constant reminder of our generosity and our forgiveness. This is how we remember our past. This is how we safeguard our future.”

It made Kenma sick. Half the nation was hopelessly _brainwashed_ by Capitol propaganda. Half the nation willingly sent their children into the Hunger Games truly believing it was an honor. Twenty-three children were _murdered_ every year. For the sake of peace. Kenma’s hands clenched into fists and his mother shot him a knowing look. She was thinking the same thing.

“Okay! It’s time for the Reaping, ladies and gentlemen. May the odds be ever in your favor.” He reached into the only bowl on the platform. Kenma’s heart clenched, even though with combining the two pools of tributes, the likelihood of his name being drawn was even lower.

His hand emerged with a slip of paper. “Taketora Yamamoto.”

Absolute silence. Kenma’s eyes scanned the crowd until he saw a boy his age walk purposefully up the stairs to the platform. Kenma recognized his face, though he had never had a conversation with him. His face was carefully composed, though eyebrows lowered ever so slightly – the only telling of his despair.

The escort’s hand delved into the bowl again. Kenma could feel his mother’s rapid heartbeat through her fingers.

“Kenma Kozume.”

“ _No!_ ”

His mother’s hands enveloped him immediately and she took several steps back, causing Kenma to stumble. He looked at the platform in shock. His name. They called his name. He was going to the arena. _He would die._

“ _You!_ ” His mother pointed a finger at the escort. “ _You set this up! You pulled him on purpose you –_ “

Her body went suddenly limp and Kenma gasped, nearly falling over. A Peacekeeper pried her off of him, a cudgel in his hand. Before Kenma had the chance to bristle and react to the assault, another Peacekeeper had him by the arms and forced him up the platform. Yamamoto and the escort were visibly shocked, their mouths open and eyes wide. But with a nod from the Peacekeeper, the escort composed himself and cleared his throat.

“Well, let’s give a warm welcome to your tributes! Taketora Yamamoto and Kenma Kozume!”

The crowd applauded, if only because a ring of Peacekeepers had formed around them, their guns held threateningly. It occurred to Kenma through the haze of shock that this was all being televised. Did the whole nation just see his mother assaulted? His heart dropped; the Capitol must have seen. What would they _do_ to her?

*** 

The escort gave Kenma and Yamamoto an hour to say goodbye to friends and family, though they weren’t allowed to leave the small, heavily decorated room on the train. Kenma could hear a constant stream of chatter from Yamamoto’s room across the hall. Kenma was alone. He didn’t have anyone besides his mother that he was close to anyway, but the fact that she was probably being _killed_ somewhere churned his stomach and numbed his body. He spent the entire hour with his legs pulled up, his head in-between his knees, tears running down his face.

A knock came at the door.

“Mother,” he whispered, knowing full well it wouldn’t be her. He wiped the tears from his face and forced his head up as the door slid open.

“Hey…” It was Yamamoto. Judging by the red rings around his eyes, he had been crying as well. _Of course. He just said goodbye to his loved ones. He’ll probably never see them again._

The boy hesitated for a moment, the sat next to Kenma on the sofa. He looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end opted for rubbing soothing circles on Kenma’s back.

“I know…that we don’t really know each other…but… We’re in this together, Kozume.”

“Kenma…” Kenma kept his gaze trained on the opposite wall, and his voice shook ever so slightly. “Call me Kenma.” He didn’t want to be associated with the name Kozume any more than he already was.                “Then, Kenma, I have your back.” He took a deep breath. “And you can call me Taketora. Did…” He paused. Kenma could imagine him biting his lip. “Did anyone come to see you…?”

“No. …you saw what they did to my mother.”

Taketora didn’t respond, and Kenma internally thanked him. He didn’t need any reminders that his mother was most likely _dead_ – he could feel himself tearing up again. But Taketora’s touch was bizarrely comforting, and he held it together.

“Ahem.” A guttural cough came from the entrance to the room. A tall man stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and jaw set. He had golden hair – though Kenma could tell by the eyebrows that it wasn’t natural – pushed out of his face by a headband.

“Ukai!” Taketora stood up and bowed to the man. Kenma recognized him as the District 5 victor from four years ago. It had been the first time Kenma had watched the Games outside of District 1, and he remembered feeling an odd sense of pride at watching his new district win.

Ukai’s grandfather had been the previous mentor for perhaps twenty years. He turned down all the new victors in his time (and he had ensured several wins for District 5 – four or five, if Kenma recalled his reading correctly) so that he could remain the sole mentor, and hopefully ensure more wins. But when his grandson was reaped, he stepped down from the post, too frightened, even after Ukai won.

“I’d like to apologize, firstly, and give my condolences.” Ukai rubbed the back of his neck and lit a cigarette, fidgeting uncomfortably. “I know this isn’t a position anyone wants to be in…and…this is my first time mentoring…” He sighed deeply. “I don’t really know what I’m doing. But I’ll say this right off the bat – you don’t play the Games to win. You play to survive. Do not enter that arena with the idea in your mind that you’ll win. Think only of survival. Don’t get cocky.”

“What are you saying?” Taketora countered immediately, lurching off the couch. Kenma wished he could sink into the cushions and disappear from this whole mess. “Don’t count us out yet! _You_ won! Don’t go telling us that _we_ can’t!”

“I’m telling it like it is, kid. Don’t take it the wrong way. I’m not giving up on you…” The rest of his sentence was lost in inaudible mumbling. His gaze turned toward the interior of the train, and he beckoned to them. “Come on.”

Taketora bristled, but his words were lost as Kenma struggled off the couch and followed Ukai. Taketora trailed behind him.

The train looked like District 1. It was much cleaner than District 5 and had a lux feel to it – plush, antique chairs lined the walls. A dark, rich wooden table took up most of the room in the cart they stood in. Directly in front of the table was a large TV. Kenma gasped and stopped in his tracks – the décor looked the same as his old house in District 1. District 1 designed luxury goods, after all…he wouldn’t be surprised if they designed the trains. A grimace forced itself onto his face. It felt like nostalgia had swept down and punched him in the gut.

“Kenma…?” Taketora’s face entered his field of view. He was frowning.

“We’re going to watch the other Reapings,” Ukai interjected, not paying Kenma any mind. He sat down at the wooden table and pressed a button on the remote. The TV beeped once and turned on. “Sit. I want us to see our competition.”

They joined Ukai at the table. Kenma forced his mind away from the past and trained his eyes on the TV. While he didn’t particularly care about the other contestants, it’d be interesting to see the tributes from the Career districts. Especially District 1. He wondered briefly if he would know any of the contestants. He hoped not. Two years ago he had recognized a friend, and it left a void of despair in his chest. He had watched her die.

Kenma could tell by the eagle symbol in the top right corner of the screen that this was an official Capitol broadcast. No doubt all the districts would be looking perfectly compliant, then.

The countdown started with District 12. Two boys were chosen. An awkward looking one with freckles and a tiny one with dusty hair. He didn’t bother committing their names to memory. A _huge_ , intimidating boy with white hair was chosen for District 11, alongside a small blonde girl. She was shaking with terror, but kept her face cheerful and bubbly. Kenma frowned.

He took note of one of the District 10 tributes, if only because his hair was the most shocking shade of orange he had ever seen. He was fairly certain the escort had called him Shouyou Hinata. The boy had to be pushed to the front of the crowd, and once on the platform, he stood rigid, not moving a single muscle. Poor kid was probably terrified. His partner had a similar reaction, though he was trembling slightly, like the blonde girl.

Again, two boys were reaped for District 9. All that Kenma noticed was that he didn’t like their haircuts. A ridiculously tall, lanky blonde was chosen for District 8 alongside a beautiful girl with black hair. They both wore glasses. Kenma tried to find humor in the situation. Another male/female pair was picked for District 7, and Kenma began to wonder why the Capitol even bothered combining the drawing pools. What purpose was it serving?

Everyone in the room shivered at the first District 6 tribute. He was bigger than the white-haired one from District 11 and toted around a stare that could turn anyone to stone. His partner, by comparison, didn’t even seem to exist.

The scene shifted to show District 5. Kenma tensed. Taketora’s name was called, and the silence that followed shook him to his bones again. Then scarecrow-escort called Kenma’s name – and the camera jumped. Kenma watched himself stand still on the platform, his face blank. For a brief moment the Peacekeepers lining the crowd were visible, pointing their guns inward. Then the scene jumped forward again. Kenma was simultaneously relieved and frustrated beyond belief. _Of course_ they wouldn’t show his mother’s resistance – the districts had to be portrayed as loyal subjects for the benefit of the _blissfully_ ignorant population of the Capitol. He clenched his hands.

Kenma forced himself to start paying attention. Districts 4, 3, 2, and 1 made up the Career pack. This would be his real competition. The people he had to avoid. Two males were picked from District 4 – a pathetically small one with multicolored hair that seemed to defy gravity, and a rather loud one with a shaved head. The tributes from District 3 seemed polar opposites of each other. One had a gentle smile and sad eyes – had the escort said Sugawara? – and the other had a frown to match the giant from District 6. Tobio Kageyama, the escort had said. He committed the name to memory.

The first tribute picked for District 2 was ecstatic. He was all smiles and winks, showing off his ego like a new toy – he would be a fan favorite, Kenma could already tell. But when the second boy was called – Iwaizumi, or something like that – the first tribute’s face fell. It was brief, but Kenma could read the horror on his face. Then he smiled again, flinging his arm around the other boy and laughing. It was fake. Kenma felt bad for them. They probably knew each other – they were probably good friends. At least one of them would die.

The scene changed to District 1, and Kenma leaned forward, his knuckles white from the grip on his pants. _Please, don’t let it be someone I know._

“Daichi Sawamura!”

Kenma breathed a sigh of relief. The crowd cheered, and a rather plain boy walked onto the stage, forcing a smile and waving. His behavior seemed odd, Kenma thought, for District 1 tributes almost always wanted to compete. It was viewed as an honor. Perhaps they were starting to wake up.

“Tetsurou Kuroo!”

 _No. No no no no no no no._ Kenma stopped breathing, his heart stopped beating – _no_. Not Kuroo. This was a boy he knew. This was the boy who had been his best friend since they were five years old. This was the boy he had missed when he was taken away in the middle of the night, unable to say goodbye. Kenma’s eyes raked his body as he stepped onto the platform with Sawamura. He had grown significantly, but his hair was still a ridiculous mess, and as the camera zoomed in, Kenma knew it was the same face, same clever eyes. Tears pooled behind his lashes, and he found himself biting his tongue and covering his mouth with a hand. Kuroo waved to the camera, smiling slightly, and Kenma wanted to vomit. On his right wrist was a silver bracelet with a cat paw charm.

“He still wears it,” Kenma whispered, not realizing he was speaking aloud. A strangled sob escaped him next. He fumbled in the pockets of his pants before pulling out a bracelet identical to Kuroo’s. When they were kids they wore the charms all the time; it was their mark of friendship. Kuroo still wore his, after all these years… Kenma clasped it around his left wrist, his breaths shaky and uneven. He barely registered Ukai switching off the TV.

“Kenma…?” It was Taketora’s voice again.

Kenma simply shook his head. He could feel their gazes on him – even Scarecrow was here now – but he refused to look up. He couldn’t do this. He stood up abruptly, knocking his chair over, and fled the room, locking himself in the small compartment with a couch he had been forced to stay in earlier.

He cried. Sobbed, would be a more accurate word. For his mother, his father, Taketora, all the contestants that would die – and for Kuroo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> deposit me in the trash where I belong
> 
> I hope to have weekly chapter updates!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AS PROMISED
> 
> I took a lot of liberties with Yamamoto's character but I'm still becoming very attached to him...

Scarecrow made Kenma join them for dinner at the thick table in the TV room. No one commented on the bracelet around his wrist or the outburst earlier.

Even though the food looked delicious and was certainly more extravagant than anything he ever had in District 5 (or 1, even), his appetite had vanished with his tears. He spent most of the dinner avoiding conversation and staring at the bracelet. He hadn’t worn it since moving districts - but he also hadn’t gotten rid of it. He kept in his pocket wherever he went. A reminder of his old life. It was something he could never let go of. The more he thought about the fact that Kuroo still wore his, the more he wanted to cry. He supposed it was heartwarming at first thought, but more likely than not, Kuroo would die. Kenma hoped he would die first so he wouldn’t have to watch.

“Would you at least _try_ to eat like a civilized human being?”

Kenma finally looked up. Scarecrow was pursing his lips and shooting a glare at Taketora, who was inhaling his food so fast Kenma wondered if he had been half-starved his whole life. It was a common story in the poorer districts, but District 5 was one of the richest. Hunger wasn’t a huge issue, nor was housing or heating or other “luxuries”. Honestly, such basic human pleasures shouldn’t have to be luxuries in the poorer districts, but he wasn’t sure he had a right to argue that point, as he’d never experienced true hunger. He was one of the lucky ones. At least he realized it, right?

“I’ll eat however I want,” Taketora shot back through a mouthful of food. “You Capitol asses don’t understand what it’s like to live in the districts.”

Scarecrow narrowed his eyes. Kenma realized for the first time that his eyes were a startling shade of purple. Must be another fashion thing.

“Don’t start with that, Yamamoto,” Ukai interjected, finally turning his head away from the TV to glower at the tribute. “You live in District 5. Ever been to 11? 12?”

The conversation stopped. Taketora started using the utensils.

Kenma nibbled on a bread roll. He could feel Ukai’s eyes on him - on his wrist, specifically. He was probably curious, but didn’t ask. Funny, he didn’t seem like one to respect the feelings of others.

In the end, it was Scarecrow who spoke.

“That bracelet is the same one that the District 1 tribute had.”

“Yeah.”

“Why do you have it?”

“I used to live in District 1.”

Everyone’s eyes were on him now. He didn’t look up. They probably wanted an explanation, though he was reluctant to touch on the subject any more. A majority of his life in District 5 had been _forgetting_ District 1, but their eyes wouldn’t look away, and he found their stares more uncomfortable than speaking. Sighing, he opened his mouth again. “My father is Arata Kozume. We lived in District 1 until I turned eleven. He said something about the Capitol that the president didn’t agree with, and my mother and I were moved to District 5. I used to be friends with that boy. That’s why we have the same bracelet.” He paused. “…He probably thinks I’m dead.”

He glanced up at the silence that followed, frowning slightly. Taketora was staring at him with wide eyes and one of Ukai’s eyebrows had risen.

“I didn’t know people could move districts.”

“They can’t,” Scarecrow said, cocking his head as if to get a better look at him. “That’s...odd.”

Kenma hummed in the back of his throat, wanting to slink back to his room. Scarecrow had shown him his quarters before dinner - a bed large enough for two adults, dressers full of fine clothing, and a personal bathroom with a shower.

Taketora read him perfectly. It was a little frightening when Kenma thought about how quickly the boy attuned to other people, but he wasn’t going to complain about it.

“I think we’re all finished eating,” Taketora said quickly, pushing back in his chair. “When will we arrive at the Capitol?”

“In the morning,” Scarecrow supplied.

“Then we should all get some sleep.”

“Hey.” Ukai rooted Taketora to the ground with his stare. “Stop it.” He jerked his head in Kenma’s direction, teeth gritted around a cigarette. The thing smelled awful, but no one was brave enough to say anything about it to his face. “Stop being nice to him. You two aren’t teammates, you’re competitors. Only one person can win the Games.”

“…are you saying I should think about how to _kill_ him instead?”

Kenma froze.

“I killed my district partner.”

They all froze. Taketora sputtered.

“I had to. There were only four of us left in the arena. We were still working together but…that meant sharing food and clean water and medicine. I realized that if I wanted to win I had to kill her. So I slit her throat in her sleep. Maybe I didn’t want to do it, but I _did_ want to survive. That’s just how the Games work.”

Scarecrow had turned a pale shade of green. Kenma and Taketora made eye-contact, trying to read each other’s thoughts in that moment.

“…I wouldn’t do that,” Taketora muttered first.

“You won’t have to. I’ll probably die before we ever make it to the final four.”

“You will if you keep talking like that,” Ukai said.

“You’re the one who said we can’t think about winning the Games,” Taketora growled.

“Don’t think about _winning_. I said think about survival. There’s a difference.”

“Is there?”

“One doesn’t necessarily involve killing other tributes.”

Kenma finally understood. Ukai regretted killing his partner, probably regretted everyone in that arena that he had killed. Because it wasn’t necessary to _kill_ them, just to _outlive_ them. Ukai was a bitter man, Kenma had gathered. He didn’t know how to mentor. But he didn’t want Taketora and Kenma to turn out like him. He didn’t want them to kill. For some reason, the revelation soothed Kenma’s nerves. He decided he liked Ukai a lot more.

“Get some sleep, you two,” Ukai said to fill the lull in the conversation, standing up. “Tomorrow is going to be hectic.”

Kenma left first, shutting the door to his room and collapsing onto his bed. Everything was still surreal, even after his breakdown. Maybe it would hit him when they reached the Capitol and saw the other tributes. Kenma fiddled with the cat charm. _Saw Kuroo_.

Then a thought hit him in the chest like a train. _My father will be there._

His father was one of the mentors for District 1; he would be training Sawamura or Kuroo. _He would be there._ Would Kenma be allowed to see him? Speak to him? Five years had passed, but it felt like a lifetime ago. How would the president react to having them in such close proximity to each other? Kenma’s heart raced at the thought, though he wasn’t sure if it was from excitement or terror.

“Kenma?”

This made three times today Kenma heard Taketora speak his name with such concern.

“…can we talk?”

“…yeah.”

The door opened and the dark haired boy entered, his face solemn as he sat on the edge of the bed. A few minutes passed in tense silence.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Taketora finally stated.

“That’s a relief.”

That earned him a gawk. “Stop it. This is serious.”

“…yeah.”

“I – I know what Ukai said. About survival, about winning, about how…we shouldn’t try and be friends. But I think it’s a load of bullshit. We’re from the same district; we have a bond just from that. I want us to be a team. A couple of weirdoes like us probably need to stick together anyway. It’s the only chance we’ll have of…of making it far.”

“…only one person can win the Games.”

“I know. And _fuck_ , the chances of either one of us winning are really low. But…I won’t be the one to kill you. And I hope you won’t be the one to kill me.”

Kenma snorted, but a smile tugged at his lips. “This is what Ukai wanted, you know.”

“What?”

“What he was saying about survival, about killing his partner…I think he regrets it. That’s why he’s stressing survival, not winning. He doesn’t want us to kill each other. To kill in general, probably.”

“How do you know?”

Kenma shrugged. “Just got the feeling.”

They stared at each other for a moment, and then a grin formed on Taketora’s face and he laughed. “You’re a strange one, you know? I’m glad we’re partners.” He slapped Kenma on the shoulder a bit too intensely, and he nearly fell off the bed. Taketora’s face softened. “Really.”

Kenma got the feeling that he saw the real Taketora Yamamoto for a second – not the somber one depressed about impending death and the Games, but his boisterous personality from District 5.

“You know, Kenma, I just thought of something. We aren’t in the arena yet. We still have at least a week to live. Might as well make the most of it, right?” He turned to look out the small window, scenery flying by at a nauseating pace. His eyes were distant. “Might as well laugh while we still can.”

Kenma’s stomached churned and he lay down, turning his back on his teammate. There was an alarming amount of truth to Taketora’s words. But that just made him want to cry again. He wished he could laugh; he wished he was strong.

“Get some sleep, Taketora,” was all he whispered.

A hand ruffled his hair. “You too. Rest up, we have to wear our brave faces tomorrow.”

The door shut with a soft click. Kenma pulled the covers over himself and curled into the fetal position. A majority of the night was spent staring at the wall, taking comfort in the soft rocking of the train, reflecting on Taketora’s words. He didn’t let himself cry.

*** 

Morning came too quickly. Kenma squinted into the rays of sunlight streaming in through the ovular window. Not wanting anyone to have to come in and wake him, he forced himself out of the bed, not bothering to change clothes or shower. The tributes got stylists who would take care of anything, didn’t they? Either way, he couldn’t muster up enough energy to care.

Breakfast was oddly silent. Biscuits, gravy, strawberries, eggs, toast, bacon – the table seemed to sag under the weight of all the food. Kenma decided to eat. _Enjoy it while I can, right?_

“We’ll pull into the Capitol in about ten minutes,” Scarecrow said, breaking the silence which had enchanted them all morning. He cleared his throat. “There will be a crowd at the station since this is easily recognizable as a tribute train, and the District 4 contestants will have just arrived. 6 isn’t far behind us. So…” he tried to smile. “So play along, alright? Smile and wave. Be likeable. If you want to survive, you’re going to need sponsors.”

“He’s right,” Ukai chipped in before Kenma or Taketora could protest. “Sponsors can send food, water, medicine, and anything else you might need in dire situations. I know we all hate the Capitol – but play the game for now. It’s the only chance at survival you have left.”

The train began to slow noticeably, the sound of whirring breaks now audible. Scarecrow said that these trains traveled at an average speed of 250 mph, which was so ridiculously fast Kenma began to understand why the trip to the Capitol took less than a day.

Kenma and Taketora couldn’t help but press their faces against the glass of the window as the Capitol came into view. Kenma had only ever seen it on TV, and as they exited a long, black expanse of tunnel – he stopped breathing. The TV didn’t even _begin_ to capture the majesty of the buildings. Blues, reds, yellows, pinks – every color that he knew of and some he had never seen before coated the buildings, houses, streets – even the foliage seemed livelier. The people matched the scenery; their hair and eyes and even _skin_ dyed with glaringly artificial colors of the rainbow.

The train slid to a stop and Kenma found himself nearly eye level with the huge crowd of citizens gathered around the platform. Their overwhelming excitement permeated the air at the sight of another tribute train; it was contagious. He looked over to see Taketora smiling and waving to the crowd, who ate it up like starving geese.

“Ready?” Ukai called, lighting another cigarette. Scarecrow urged them forward.

“We’re going straight to your stylists,” he said quietly. “The chariot rides are in four hours, so they’ll probably want you immediately.”

“Four hours?” Taketora exclaimed. “It takes that long just for makeup and costumes?”

“Sometimes longer.”

Scarecrow stepped out of the train first, a comical grin taking over his face as he waved and bowed to the crowd. Cries of “District 5!” hung in the air. While they were no Career district, 5 had become pretty popular over the years what with Ukai’s grandfather as mentor and all the wins. According to Scarecrow, when the public got ahold of the news that Ukai was going to be the new mentor they were ecstatic. They expected a comeback for District 5 – could these tributes triumph over the Careers and take back their former glory? Kenma’s gut twisted at the thought. There was no way.

While Taketora managed to be disgustingly enthusiastic about crowd greeting, Kenma found himself forcing a smile and only raising his hand a few times. Let Taketora be the pleaser. Maybe people would like Kenma’s calm, even if he was anything but.

They walked a fairly short distance before finding themselves in the fashion building. Assistants ran around frantically, leaving a trail of fabric scraps wherever they went.

“This is where we leave you,” Scarecrow said, pursing his lips. “Both of you, head up to the fifth floor. Your designers will meet you. We’ll meet back up at the training facilities after the parade, okay?” He smiled then left with Ukai. Kenma found himself stuck to the ground – when had he started liking Scarecrow? When did he begin to realize that he was just a pawn, unable to be blamed for the Reapings?

“Kenma.” Taketora nudged him. “Let’s go.”

The elevator ride was short, and Kenma could tell that the excitement from all the citizens had infected Taketora. He was practically humming with anticipation, eyes wide and a smile plastered to his face.

“I hope we get cool outfits,” he said, more to himself than to Kenma.

The doors opened with a _ding_ and they were immediately surrounded by a small group of assistants.

“Ah! You’re the tributes from District 5, are you not? Come, come, we’ve been waiting. You’re Kenma, right? Come with me. Your partner will be in a separate room – I see the creases in your brow, don’t worry! Come, come!”

The bubbly woman with fluorescent pink hair dragged Kenma into a white room cluttered with chairs and makeup.

“My name is Houta,” she continued. “I’m just going to touch you up a bit before I let Ms. Ageha see you. She shouldn’t see you like this – oh no, that wouldn’t be good at all. Take off your clothes, and we’ll get started.”

Kenma blinked at her.

“We don’t have all day!”

He took his shirt off and, under her scrutinizing gaze, did away with the rest of his clothing. She circled him slowly, eyes raking his body.

“Not bad, not bad,” she muttered, picking at her lips. “Here, get in the bathtub. I’ll scrub you down and then we can get to the altering. You have quite a feminine shape, don’t you? Perhaps I could wax you – oh!”

Kenma stepped into the bathtub, knowing that resistance was useless and this woman would force him to do everything anyway, and her eyes lit up. She took his face in her hands and pulled him forward.

“Your eyes,” she whispered. “They’re golden. Golden! Is that natural?”

He tried to look everywhere but her face. “…yes.”

“ _Fantastic!_ Oh, Ms. Ageha will love this. And they’re so _big_. They’ll just _have_ to be highlighted. Yes.”

Kenma said nothing. Houta hummed in excitement as she turned the water on, lathering up soap and scrubbing his body down. It didn’t really hurt, but the fact that she expressed no shame cleaning him _everywhere_ made him extremely uncomfortable. He had to constantly remind himself that this was just her job.

She was done in a matter of minutes and pulled him out, drying him off with a towel and placing him in a chair immediately.

“Alright honey, I’m going to shape your eyebrows, kay? It’ll hurt, but only for a moment.” She swiped hot wax over his eyebrows and Kenma flinched, clenching his fists when she placed cloth over it. “Ready?” She ripped it off his face. He gasped, jerking in his chair. The process was repeated for the other eyebrow. Houta smiled. “Perfect! See?” She handed him a small mirror. Kenma’s eyebrows were nearly _gone_ they were so thin. His eyes widened and he opened his mouth to protest but Houta shushed him with more babbling.

“They suit you so well! I thought about doing your legs as well, but I guess it’s unnecessary. I’ll send you over to Ms. Ageha now – oh, here.” She handed him a fresh pair of clothes – a simple white linen shirt with a matching pair of pants. She opened the door for him.

“Goodbye, darling, have fun! And good luck,” she said with a wink.

It was a different door than he had come through, and the room it led to was huge. One of the walls was nothing but glass, offering a stunning view of the Capitol. A white leather couch took up a large amount of room in the center, and across from it sat a single plush chair. A glass table rested between them.

“Kenma Kozume, I take it?”

He turned to find an elegant, pale woman with hair dark as pitch saunter in through the door. He sighed in relief – she didn’t seem as overwhelming as Houta. He nodded.

“Please, have a seat.” She collapsed onto the couch, draping one arm over the side. He sat in the chair, folding his legs up.

“Welcome to the Capitol, Kenma. I’m Ageha, your designer and stylist.” She pressed a button on the side of the couch and suddenly the glass top of the table sank into the ground and was replaced with a top laden with food. “Take whatever you like.”

Kenma stared. This was more food than the train had, more food than he would eat in a _week_ – would it all go to waste if he didn’t eat it? Was _every_ room like this?

“You must think us wretched.” She flashed him a grimace. He said nothing. “You don’t have to eat it.”

She took a deep breath and trained her eyes on him. “You have a nice face, a slender body…almost feminine. Did Houta do your eyebrows? They’re quite thin. She has a tendency to do that… You’re a quiet one, hm? No matter. I already like you more than some of my past muses.”

She stood up and gestured for him to do the same. “Do you believe you’re going to die in the Games, Kenma?”

“…more likely than not, I will.”

She chuckled. “Sadly, that is the case for all outside the Career pack. I refuse to work with them, you know. Only districts 5 and beyond, otherwise the tributes are too cocky, too flashy – I don’t like it. Besides, it’s more exciting to root for the underdog, isn’t it? Which is exactly why I’m satisfied with you, Kenma. Just _wait_ until you see the outfits we designed for you and your partner.” She looked to him, her eyes lighting up and her mouth smiling as she saw his eyes. “You’ll be unforgettable.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DESIGNING EVERYONE'S CHARIOT OUTFIT IS SO FUN
> 
> also you will meet the others in the next chapter I promise


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for how long it took me to get this chapter out. My life and my family has been an absolute mess these past two weeks. But here's the third chapter!
> 
> Also, if any of you want to talk to me or nag me to write faster (or like the things I post) you can contact me easily through my tumblr [here!](http://taintedlyrium.tumblr.com/)

His hair was yellow. _Yellow_. Ageha said it represented District 5’s industry – electricity – but Kenma didn’t know how that warranted dying his hair _yellow_. Taketora shared the same fate, and it was with a groan that Kenma realized they both matched Ukai now. Houta was delighted. _How perfect_.

With their hair smelling like cat litter and ammonia from the dye, Kenma and Taketora were rushed into their wardrobe and makeup and dragged down to the covered stadium where the chariots awaited.

Taketora got his wish. Their outfits were _cool_. A tight, black body suit charged with electricity. Literally. It reminded Kenma of a plasma globe he had seen in school once. What looked like purple lightning bolts snaked across their bodies, radiating from their back and chest and dancing over the fabric. If touched, all the bolts would concentrate on one area – Ageha said something about how the free electrons in plasma were attracted to the polarized charge of living cells, whatever that meant.

“We look like living lightning,” Taketora exclaimed with a grin as they entered the stadium. He couldn’t keep his hands off the suit and dragged the plasma to various points on his body with grotesque enthusiasm.

“Yeah.” It _was_ cool, Kenma had to admit, but he didn’t want to be noticed like this; didn’t want to be a target.

Luckily, the other tributes were just as impressive.

No one spoke to anyone but their partner, except for the orange-haired boy from District 10 that Kenma had taken notice of on TV. He was no longer stoic, instead nearly bouncing off the walls with energy, complimenting everyone’s outfit with a huge, genuine-looking smile. He wore a tight body suit as well, with black raven’s wings attached to his arms and a feathered headdress. Kenma wondered why his designer chose a raven – District 10 was livestock.

Kenma spotted the District 2 boys, the ones who were presumably friends, both in a very Capitol take on Old World military uniforms. Looking down the line in the opposite direction he noticed the two tributes from District 8, the ones who wore glasses. Both wore extremely textured clothes – the girl a white, lacy, long but revealing dress, and the boy in a similar fabric in what Kenma assumed to be a suit. It was impossible to tell.

They were all told to get on their chariot. Kenma couldn’t see far ahead enough to spot Kuroo. He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or not, but the thought of seeing Kuroo again constricted his heart. What would he _say?_

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the 75th annual Hunger Games! Are you ready to meet your tributes?” A cheer erupted from outside the covered stadium. Kenma couldn’t breathe. It was happening. The Games were starting. Kenma’s heartbeat sounded like the countdown to his death.

“Well,” the hidden announcer continued, “here they are!”

The cheering grew louder. Two cannons shot, and celebratory music began to play. The chariots rolled out one-by-one as the names were called.

“From District 1: Daichi Sawamura and Tetsurou Kuroo!”

Kenma craned his head but still couldn’t see outside the dome.

“And your contestants from District 2! Tooru Oikawa and Hajime Iwaizumi!”

As expected, several ecstatic screams could be heard among the cheers; Oikawa was already a crowd favorite.

“And from District 3, please welcome Koushi Sugawara and Tobio Kageyama!”

They were the ones wearing actual suits; crisp and clean, as expected from the technology district. Kenma reminded himself to watch Kageyama during training, as he had a killer’s glint in his eye.

“Put your hands together for District 4! Ryuunosuke Tanaka and Yuu Nishinoya!”

Kenma took a deep breath and reached for Taketora’s hand, who took it without hesitation. They were up next. _Smile and wave_ , Ukai had told them. _Look somewhat excited to be here_.

“Here are the hopeful champions of District 5! Taketora Yamamoto and Kenma Kozume!”

Their chariot rolled out into the street and Kenma felt like he had been punched in the gut. It looked like the entire Capitol had come to watch. Raised rows of benches lined the stone roads, the fluorescent hair blinding and the howls deafening. A collective gasp came from the crowd as they hit the light; their electric suits danced wildly. Kenma squeezed Taketora’s hand. Taketora raised his other one to the crowd, beaming and waving, even having the gall to blow a few kisses. Kenma, by contrast, didn’t move. _Couldn’t_ move. He was completely frozen.

“ _Ladies_ and _gentlemen_ , I just received confirmation that _yes_ , Kenma Kozume _is_ the son of Arata Kozume, the Hunger Games victor twenty-six years ago and current mentor for _District 1_. _Why_ is his son competing for District 5? …That’s a question I do not know the answer to, but I promise to bring you the story as soon as I can.”

So much for remaining inconspicuous.

 

* * *

 

 

Ukai didn’t plan on watching the parade; the glamour and revelry surrounding the Games disgusted him and he had no care for seeing the boastful costumes from the designers. But the Capitol wasn’t about to let mentors loose around the city. The government set up a special room just for the mentors – decorated in white leather furniture, with a huge window overlooking the stadium exit and a wall-sized TV to broadcast the parade once it moved beyond visibility. The Capitol thought it was a good idea to stick all the mentors in this one room, apparently, and Ukai found himself glowering in the corner, cigarette in hand. He didn’t want to look at any of the others, especially not the god-awful Careers. He kept his eyes trained on the ground as the horrendously enthusiastic host announced the names of the tributes as they wheeled out on horse-drawn chariots.

He reasoned that as long as he was forced to watch the festivities, he might as well evaluate the competition. His eyes locked on Tetsurou Kuroo immediately. He recalled what Kenma told him in the train, about living in District 1. About how Kuroo had been his best friend; they wore the same bracelets after all. He striked Ukai as a cocky boy – all smirks and waves. Well, he was from District 1. In his experience, they were all cocky assholes. He hoped for Kenma’s sake that Kuroo matched the stereotype – it would be too hard for the boy to fight someone who still loved him.

His eyes snapped from Kuroo’s face to his body and _ridiculous_ outfit. If it could even be called that. He wore tight, black leather pants with knee high, studded boots. He wore no shirt but was instead coated in what looked like flakes of gold. His partner was in the exact same outfit, but coated in silver. The crowd swooned and Ukai scoffed; but he admitted the boys seemed to be in top physical condition. Noted.

The District 2 tributes emerged in what Ukai immediately thought were some sort of bondage suits. He assumed the designers had been going for a military-general look, but that didn’t stop the sneer that curled his lip. Their hands were linked – not uncommon – but as the audience went ecstatic over Tooru Oikawa, the two kissed. Ukai nearly dropped his cigarette. He blinked several times, but his eyes were right. The tributes kissed. The cheering doubled in volume. A sick feeling settled in his stomach that refused to leave even after taking a few drags of the cigarette. Two tributes in love would only end in tragedy.

When Kenma and Taketora emerged from the shelter Ukai couldn’t stop the small smile that spread across his face or the pride welling in his chest. Even though he could care less about the costumes, theirs were _extraordinary_. Plasma suits. Who knew technology like that even existed?

“ _Ladies_ and _gentlemen_ , I just received confirmation that _yes_ , Kenma Kozume _is_ the son of Arata Kozume, the Hunger Games victor twenty-six years ago and current mentor for _District 1_.”

Ukai coughed, actually dropping his cigarette this time. He looked around the room – no, all he had to do was look next to him. He had been aware of the man’s presence since the introductions started, and knew he was the District 1 mentor; the man’s hands clenched around his crossed arms, his brows furrowed and jaw locked. Now that he was looking for it, Ukai could see the resemblance: the soft face, large eyes – _golden_ eyes. How had he not realized before…?

“Keishin Ukai?” Arata Kozume had taken notice of Ukai’s gaze and nailed him to the wall with the same stare that Kenma used. But there was desperation in his voice. “You’re the District 5 mentor…?”

Ukai nodded, mouth opening and closing uselessly.

Arata bit his lower lip and turned back to the window, watching Kenma’s chariot continue down the stone path. His nails pierced his skin and thin lines of blood trickled down his arm.

“Kenma is…your son?”

Arata nodded. “It’s fucking low of President Nekomata to put Kenma in the Games.” He lowered his voice. “He was drawn on purpose, to spite me. They want me compliant. They think that putting my son’s life on the line will make me respect their authority.” His teeth pierced the skin of his lower lip, and Ukai gawked, beginning to understand how intense and passionate a man Arata Kozume was. “Fuck them. It won’t work. I won’t let…”

“You won’t let him die?” Ukai supplied, a note of suspicion in his voice. “Your son isn’t a fighter. He’s a good kid, a really good kid but…I don’t think his chances of survival are too great.”

He could _hear_ Arata swallow. “I know. He never has been…and…I never wanted him to be a killer. I never wanted him to be like me…”

Ukai sighed. That was _exactly_ how he felt, _exactly_ why he emphasized survival instead of killing. He didn’t want either of those boys to become killers. Because if they survived…they’d be scarred for life.

“I don’t want to see them die either,” he said finally, moving closer to Arata so he could lower his voice. “But what can we do about it? These Games have been around for seventy-five years. All rebellions have failed…”

“Then this one will have to work.”

Ukai’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re suggesting…?”

“Yes. As soon as Kenma was reaped I began contacting everyone that I knew could help. We’ve been…planning this for a long time. But now that Kenma…”

“You’ve had a rebellion planned all this time?”

“Somewhat. And the president knows that I’m doing _something_ , but he can’t pinpoint what. Which is probably why he sent Kenma into the Games. To get me to give up.”

“You’re insane,” Ukai sputtered. He couldn’t imagine the years of planning it must take to organize a large-scale rebellion in secret.

“That may be. But this will work. It has to.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Welcome!”

The parade lasted around half an hour, enough time to circle important parts of the Capitol that had been roped off for the event. It ended in front of the president’s building – a large, square structure with ribbed columns up the front and a curved balcony overlooking the city. Which is where the president stood now, his face enlarged on screens that flanked him. He was a very old man, heavy set with small, squinting eyes and tufts of grey hair on his head.

“Welcome, tributes, to the 75th annual Hunger Games!”

The crowd that had gathered around them cheered deafeningly loud. The president launched into what sounded like an old and practiced speech, and the screen began to show the faces of the tributes instead. While it was obvious that whoever was manning the cameras was trying to give all the districts equal screen time, it lingered on Kenma and Taketora far too long, multiple times. Kenma realized that it was because of their suits (or that fact that the announcer had drawn so much attention to him, but it made him more comfortable to go with their suits). Dusk descended upon them, making everything a little harder to see, but the moving plasma-lightning on their outfits caused them to stand out more than anyone else. Kenma wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or not.

“So happy Hunger Games…” The president’s voice broke through Kenma’s thoughts as he realized the speech was ending. The screens were back on him, showcasing a wide, almost terrifying grin. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

More applause. Their horses pulled the chariots toward the training facilities instinctively. And Kenma still hadn’t quite gotten over the shock that the Games were beginning.       

***

The training facilities, it turned out, were in the same building as the rooms they were staying in. One had to walk through a tunnel to reach the training area, but it was right next to the rooms – which were entire floors, in reality. Twelve floors. One for each district, since the escort and mentors also stayed with the tributes. So Kenma found himself in a sea of people – twenty four tributes, twelve escorts, and a varying number of mentors all crammed onto the ground floor, filing into elevators to reach their level. Scarecrow and Ukai met Kenma and Taketora in the lobby (Scarecrow’s hair was now purple, Kenma noted) and pushed them through the sea of bodies to reach the elevator.

Something was off about Ukai. Not that the man was particularly talkative, but he seemed more reserved than usual, a permanent frown etched into his face. Kenma wanted to ask about it, but felt awkward about butting into Ukai’s life. He probably just hated being back in the Capitol. He went through all this before, after all.

“Don’t shove me,” a voice snapped as Kenma brushed pasted a dark-haired boy. He slid his glance to the side, opening his mouth to apologize, when he was met with that murderous gaze of Tobio Kageyama. All words died in his throat. The boy sneered. Taketora pulled on his hand to keep Kenma moving, and with much difficulty he ripped his gaze from the District 2 tribute and shivered.

He had been right to note him at the Reapings. This boy was a true Career, ready to kill, ready to win.

Scarecrow finally got them through the horde and shoved them into an elevator.

“I swear,” he huffed, tugging at the gold-plated sleeves of his shirt, “this place gets more disorganized each year. Heathens, the lot of them.”

“They’re just scared,” Ukai responded calmly. “Let them be rowdy. They’ll all die in a few days anyway.”

That shut Scarecrow up.

Kenma looked out into the thinning mess of tributes as they waited for the elevator doors to close. A tall, shirtless boy with messy hair walked through the back. He turned his head, and his eyes locked with Kenma’s.

Kenma couldn’t breathe.

Kuroo’s eyes widened, his mouth opening, his hand reaching out desperately.

“Kenma!”

The elevator dinged and the doors began to close. He could see Kuroo pushing through the remaining competitors, his face bizarrely excited and _oh god he thought I was dead this whole time how do I explain_ – Kenma took a step forward as if to bolt from the elevator, but the doors closed.  He placed a palm on the cold, steel doors, his heart racing, his eyes wide.

“Kuroo,” he whispered.

Scarecrow, Ukai, and Taketora stared. No one said anything.

Kuroo had been right there. He almost considered staying in the elevator when it slowed to a stop on level 5. If he waited he could go back to the ground floor, surely Kuroo would still be there, and they’d – they would what? A sick feeling returned to Kenma’s stomach. Kuroo was a Career. He had probably changed in the years after Kenma’s absence. He could probably kill without hesitation now. He might be able to kill Kenma, too, if he had too. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he decided to get off the elevator with everyone else.

Their floor screamed Capitol. Modern, black and white furniture, several TV screens, an oak table already laden with food, grandiose bedrooms, and bathrooms with voice controlled showers. Kenma wished he could enjoy it, but went right to the balcony upon entering, shutting the glass door with force and pulling his knees up to his chest.

The lights of the city at night were soft, flickering, and oddly comforting. They didn’t fit the feel of the people in daylight.

Scarecrow mentioned in the elevator that the interviews were tomorrow. Which meant they had to come up with some ridiculously stereotypical persona to present to the masses in hopes of currying favor. Kenma already decided he wasn’t going to speak at all. He had nothing to say to these people. They would only question him about his father anyway, given what the announcer had said, and Kenma wasn’t about to give in to any of their interrogations. Sighing, he rested his head in-between his legs and ran fingers through his now yellow hair.

He wanted to talk to Kuroo. To his father. To hug them both and go back to District 1 and pretend everything was okay. Pretend that his father never defied authority, that no one was going to die… _How many days do I have left?_ Kenma wondered. _Five? Six?_

Kenma heard the glass door slide open and footsteps beside him, but he didn’t look up. He knew it would be Taketora.

“They have force fields around the balconies,” Taketora stated after several minutes of silence.

Kenma looked up to see his golden-haired partner. “Why?”

“To keep people from jumping off. Apparently they had a problem with that the first few years.”

Kenma slowly swiveled his head to look out across the Capitol again. He couldn’t see a force field, but he didn’t doubt Taketora’s words.

“Would you jump?” Kenma asked softly.

Taketora hummed thoughtfully, his leg bouncing up and down like he did when he was agitated. “No,” he replied. “I guess I’d rather be killed in the arena. I don’t want to be the one to end my life. What about you?”

Kenma didn’t answer. They sat there for what seemed like hours. Kenma eventually stretched out his legs and Taketora stopped bouncing his.

“Yes.”

“What?”

“I’d jump.”

Taketora didn’t stare. He didn’t say anything else. Kenma knew he understood; he didn’t want his parents to watch him die, or his friends, and he certainly didn’t like the idea of being murdered. Of losing control of his life. And what if it was _Kuroo_ who had to kill him?

 _Yes_ , he thought, _I’d much rather be the one to kill myself._

“We should get some sleep,” he muttered. “We have the interview tomorrow, and probably some training… Maybe you’ll be able to talk to your friend.”

“Kuroo? Maybe…” Again, that hesitation. That realization that Kenma didn’t know what to say to his own best friend.

“…Maybe you’ll see your dad.”

Kenma swallowed nervously and shrugged.

“You never told me he was the District 1 mentor,” Taketora said quietly.

“I didn’t know if he still was. I haven’t seen him in five years.”

“Do you think the Capitol will let you guys see each other? Wasn’t that the reason they moved you in the first place?”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing. I don’t know how they could stop us from talking but…it’s possible.”

“…Your Reaping wasn’t a coincidence, was it?”

Kenma let out a breathy laugh and forced a smile. “Just realizing that, huh?”

He stood up and brushed off his pants, even though there was no dirt or dust, and opened the glass door to step inside. He didn’t look at the food on the table, didn’t care if it went to waste. He wanted to shower and sleep and pretend for a moment that he was home.

“…Goodnight, Tora.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be through Oikawa's perspective~


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, writing for Oikawa proved to be quite the challenge. I apologize if he and/or Iwa seem a little OOC, but it's my first time writing for either of them and they're so different from Kenma, so please be gentle! xD

“Oikawa?”

He grunted in the back of his throat, meant as some form of acknowledgement, but didn’t look away from the soothing night lights of the Capitol. Iwaizumi was leaning against the balcony railing next to him, his back facing the city. Oikawa let out a long sigh, finally looking down to his fingers.

“Interviews are tomorrow,” Iwa muttered. “You ready?”

“Yeah. I’ll talk about you.”

“What?”

Oikawa smiled and nudged his friend’s shoulder. “We can’t only give them a kiss, Iwa-chan. They’ll want more. I think I’ll just gush about how much I love you.” A coy smile crossed his lips. Iwaizumi blushed furiously and turned his head away.

“Idiot. …Just don’t say anything weird, okay?”

“Aww, so I can’t talk about all our sexual exploits?”

“What sexual exploits?” Iwa sputtered, his mouth agape.

“Where should I start?” Oikawa purred. “On the train when –“

That earned him a punch to the shoulder. “Shut up, Assikawa.”

“So mean, Iwa-chan,” he pouted. But his face quickly fell into a neutral expression, and he looked back at the city. “Less than a week until we enter the arena…”

“Don’t think about it,” Iwa responded quickly. “That won’t change the situation.”

Oikawa hummed. They stood in comfortable silence for several minutes. Somewhere along the line Oikawa took Iwa’s hand in his own. The boy squeezed it back reassuringly.

Oikawa knew he shouldn’t think about their situation, but there wasn’t much else to contemplate. His entire life had been dedicated to training for the Games. He had thought it so prestigious – and never did he think about the fact that he could lose. He would win the Games, get all the glory, and return home to Iwaizumi. Everything would be perfect. It was never supposed to turn out like this. He snuck a glance at his best friend – were they something more now? Oikawa found he didn’t really want to put a label on it – and felt tears pooling behind his eyes. He blinked them away.

In an ideal world, he could have glory and Iwa. But now one of them would die. They would make it until the Career pack disassembled, of that Oikawa was sure, but…who would kill Iwa?

_What the_ fuck, he thought immediately. _You’re already assuming that Iwa will be the one to die, and you will win. Do you_ want _that? Do you? …Could you give up your life for him? Could you live without him? Could you live with_ yourself _, knowing that you probably could have saved him…?_

He swallowed audibly. Iwaizumi glanced at him curiously.

“Iwa…” he started, the words sticking in his throat, “which one of us…do you think…will die?”

“Stop it.” The dark-haired boy clenched his jaw, his gaze steady. “Don’t talk like that.”

“But I feel –“

“Don’t. Talk.” His grip on Oikawa’s hand tightened to an uncomfortable pressure. “…I won’t let you die,” he added quietly. Oikawa whimpered.

“Iwa-chan…”

“Drop the chan. We’re eighteen years old.”

Oikawa opened his mouth to protest, not about the honorific (which he would never drop, no matter how many times Iwa complained), but about the ridiculous self-sacrifice Iwaizumi was implying. But the words were stifled by Iwa’s lips against his own. He gasped softly at the roughness of it and surrendered momentarily to the passion. His hands latched onto the other boy’s shoulders to make sure he was still there, that this wasn’t a dream, that these lips that now _oh god did Iwa just nip his lower lip –_

“Oikawa.” Iwa’s face was slightly flushed. “I don’t want to lose you. Let’s just…enjoy these few days left, okay?”

Oikawa grimaced. Sometimes Iwaizumi was too stubborn. But he held his tongue. As the night progressed and the air cooled, they stepped inside. Their escort and mentors had left them alone after the parade, and were presumably asleep now.

Without questioning it, both Oikawa and Iwaizumi went to the same bedroom. They stripped down to their underwear without comment and crawled into the King-sized bed. Oikawa rested his head on Iwa’s chest, curling in on himself. Iwa’s hand threaded through Oikawa’s hair and stroked it affectionately.

“Good night, Iwa-chan.” He arched his neck up and pecked the boy on the cheek, which earned him a pleasant hum. It didn’t take long for either of them to fall asleep. 

 

***

 

Oikawa spent a majority of the morning glaring at the other contestants. He knew he’d have to talk to District 1 and 3 soon to establish alliances, but decided that could wait as he judged the others. He was particularly put off by the smaller boy from District 5. Not only had he stolen the Capitol’s attention from him and Iwaizumi with his outfit and the startling bit about his father, but there was something too calm and strange about his demeanor. As if he either expected to win or had already resigned himself to his death.

The other tribute he took fault with was the orange-haired boy from District 10, and only because he was impossible to ignore. Appearance aside, the boy’s unending energy was irritating. It seemed his goal to befriend all the other tributes and Oikawa couldn’t fathom _why_ – he would just have to kill them later.

As morning inched toward noon, all the tributes gathered in the large building meant for interviews. They were hurried backstage for the painfully long duration of interviewing twenty-four different contestants. The goal of these, of course, was to capture the interest of the Capitol’s citizens in hopes of gaining sponsors.

District 1 went first, followed by the others in numerical order. There were TVs backstage so everyone else could watch and evaluate their competition.

Tetsurou Kuroo stepped onto the stage. He quickly established a cocky, confident attitude which Oikawa despised – that was supposed to be _his_ persona.

The host was Yuusuke Takinoue, a young, energetic man with short, golden hair. Oikawa curled his lip in disgust – he remembered from past years that Takinoue usually styled his hair an alarming shade of blue, but now it matched the yellow ombre effect that District 5 toted.

“So Kuroo,” Takinoue inquired, leaning forward in his chair. “Is there any significance to that bracelet you’re wearing? It’s your token, I assume?”

“It is. A friend gave it to me a long time ago. I haven’t seen him in several years, but I wear this for him, so he may know that I still value our friendship…”

A collective “aww” came from the crowd, and Oikawa gritted his teeth. He was determined to beat Kuroo now, and glanced to Iwaizumi, whose twitching eyebrow told of the shared irritation.

“Just because we ally with them doesn’t mean we have to like them,” Oikawa supplied.

Daichi Sawamura went next, and Oikawa was much more taken with him. Polite with an undertone of fierceness – he gave off the impression that he was confident and skilled while remaining affable.

When Oikawa’s turn came, he strode up the stairs quickly, eager to show these Capitol fools just how much they should love him. Thankfully, he was called before Iwa. It wouldn’t do to have his partner sputter uncertainties when questioned about their display of affection during the parade.

Oikawa hopped onto the stage, almost blinded by the sudden onslaught of light, and held up his hand in a peace sign.

“Hello, Oikawa!” Takinoue shouted, waving him to the chair all the tributes sat in.

Each tribute was only allotted three minutes, so Takinoue generally spared no time for formalities. His face already split in a wide grin as Oikawa sat down; he leaned forward eagerly and brought the microphone up.

“Well there’s quite a bit of gossip surrounding you and your partner. We’re all eager for details, right?” He tossed a look out to the crowd and they yelled in encouragement.

Oikawa smiled brightly and rested his hand on his cheek, sighing dramatically. “I’m in love with my partner, is it not obvious?”

Excited squealing and cooing came from the crowd, and Oikawa grinned to himself. He knew they would eat this up.

“Iwa-chan and I have been best friends since childhood. I’ve always loved him, and I’ve always wanted to be in the Games. My dream was to win the Games and come back to Iwa. But…I certainly didn’t expect us to compete together. We’ve become so much closer though. We confessed our feelings to each other, and shared new experiences…” He sighed dreamily again and leaned forward in the chair.

“New experiences? Care to elaborate?” The way Takinoue said it made Oikawa sure that everyone in the room immediately understood what he was implying – Iwa would yell at him for this later, he was sure of it.

“Well…the night we boarded the train we…ah…I shouldn’t say anymore.”

The audience whined and Oikawa smiled coyly, waving a hand in a dismissing motion.

“There are some things that should stay private, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose you’re right,” Takinoue answered rather smugly. “But, you mentioned you’ve always wanted to be in the Games? Do you feel prepared, then?”

“Oh, very much so. I plan to win.”

“And your partner, Iwaizumi?”

Oikawa hesitated, then stared out into the crowd, his face suddenly grim. “I won’t let him die. And if…if that means _I_ must die, then my last memory will be the taste of his lips.”

All was silent for a few seconds.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen two tributes so in love,” Takinoue finally said. “My heart goes out to both of you.”

Oikawa opened his mouth to speak, but paused. He had to wonder if those words were meant as congratulation or a condolence, and what the audience took it as. But he could already hear them clapping, along with muffled sniffs. He couldn’t help but realize that they were all sappy, ignorant fools. A pity he needed their love and support to win the Games.

His time ran out and he waved to the crowd, beaming at them and laughing as he exited the stage. The minute he hit the stairs his face fell. He stared dead ahead, purposefully ignoring all the other tributes.

“Oikawa you idiot why did –“

He silenced Iwa with a quick kiss. “Don’t you dare complain now. It’s your turn. …I love you.”

Iwa’s face turned a light shade of pink and he pursed his lips, turning away, not saying anything in return. Oikawa smiled softly and watched him disappear to the stage. When had he fallen so deeply for his best friend?

 

* * *

 

               

Kenma hated crowds. He especially hated crowds when there was limited space in the room, and everyone surrounding him was his potential murderer. He clung to Taketora’s side like his life depended on it (and for all he knew, it could) as the tributes were pushed backstage and the interviews began. He had no desire to watch, but Taketora insisted, and Kenma soon found himself staring unblinkingly at Kuroo’s interview. The first thing he noticed was the host’s hair – it matched his, Taketora’s, and Ukai’s. He was too shocked to mention it to his partner, but prayed it was a good sign. If the host supported District 5, surely others would as well.

Kuroo adopted a cocky attitude that Kenma found fitting. His friend had always been arrogant. Then the subject of the bracelet came up, and Kenma’s breath caught in his throat.

“It is. A friend gave it to me a long time ago. I haven’t seen him in several years, but I wear this for him, so he may know that I still value our friendship…”

He stared down at his own copy of the bracelet and could feel Taketora eyeing him. He bit his lip, that sad fear creeping up on him again. Once Kuroo was done with the interview, he’d be down with the rest of them. He’d be able to talk to Kenma.

“Hey Kenma…are you nervous?”

“What?”

“For the interview.”

“Oh. Not really. Are you?”

He knew before the words came out of his mouth what the answer was. As much as Taketora had been feeding the Capitol enthusiasm, he was trembling now. Kenma supposed it would be nerve racking to have to act like someone you aren’t in front of these people. Which is why he wouldn’t do it. Kenma wasn’t about to play their little games this time, no matter how much Ukai and Scarecrow insisted.

“Kenma!”

It wasn’t Taketora’s voice this time. Kenma swallowed hard, his palms breaking out in a sweat instantly, and he turned his head to see Kuroo rushing toward him. It reminded him of the incident in the elevator, but this time Kuroo would reach his destination. Kenma wanted to rush forward to meet him halfway and sink through the floor and die at the same time.

He stared blankly ahead instead, rooted to the spot.

And Kuroo enveloped him like a tidal wave crashing over a village.

“Kenma,” Kuroo breathed, his arms wrapping easily around the small body and pulling him close. “You’re alive, I can’t believe it. You’re alive, you’re here, you’re…”

“Yes,” Kenma replied as Kuroo trailed off. He reciprocated the hug and let himself lean into his friend, breathing in his scent. “I wish I could have contacted you but…”

“I thought the Peacekeepers killed you.” Kuroo pulled back and held Kenma away by an arm’s length, examining him. “You look great. Different, though.”

“It’s the hair,” he said quietly. “You look the same.”

Kuroo grinned widely. “Do I? It’s the hair.” He laughed briefly. “When I watched the Reaping…I couldn’t believe it. I never expected to hear your name again, certainly not see your face. And in District 5, of all places…”

Kenma fiddled with his fingers and nodded. “We shouldn’t be here,” he whispered.

“In the Games?” A pause. “Yeah… I didn’t expect things to turn out like this.”

“Are you gonna kill me?” Kenma said in a rush, eyes trained on the floor.

Kuroo sputtered. “What? No. No, Kenma, I could never. You’re my best friend, still, after all these years, and just because we have to compete against each other doesn’t mean I’m going to stab you in the back. No. I couldn’t stand to lose you again. I just got you back…”

Tears threatened to spill down Kenma’s cheeks. “You really haven’t changed,” he muttered, leaning his head against Kuroo’s chest. He felt comforting hands on his back.

“No, I haven’t. You said so yourself. Hey…don’t cry, okay? Everything will work out, somehow…”

 

* * *

 

               

Oikawa stood in front of one of the TV screens, arms folded across his chest, Iwa’s arm draped over his waist. The interviews following District 2 had been uneventful in his mind. He didn’t mind the silver-haired boy from District 3 nicknamed “Suga” by Takinoue, but his partner, Kageyama, pissed him off. His face seemed to be stuck in a scowl. Both tributes from District 4 had been boisterous, as well as the first contestant from District 5. Oikawa was getting pretty sick of all the energy when the second boy from District 5 stepped on stage. Kenma Kozume, the one who had stolen the show at the parade. Small, quiet, and unassuming, Oikawa paid rapt attention to all his movements.

“So, Kenma,” Takinoue began after the applause died down, “how do you feel about competing in the Hunger Games, considering the legacy your father set?”

Kenma didn’t answer. He sat rigidly, staring out at the crowd. A shiver ran down Oikawa’s spine; this felt wrong. It was creepy.

“Um,” the interviewer continued, clearly caught off guard. “Speaking of your father, why are you in District 5? I’m sure there’s a fascinating story behind that.”

More silence. By now a hush had taken over the crowd and all the tributes backstage as everyone waited with baited breath. Would Kenma speak at all?

“Do you think you’re prepared for the Games?” Takinoue tried again.

Kenma reached a hand out for the mic. Hesitantly, Takinoue handed it over.

“You think this is a game?” he began quietly, standing up and glaring out into the audience. “You think it’s funny? Look back on all the tributes – no, all the _people_ you just met. Each and every one of them is a human being, just like the person sitting next to you. They all have thoughts, emotions, friends, and family. And they will all die. _Die_. For your _amusement_. You’ll laugh, maybe be sad for a second, and move on. But this is real human suffering. _Wake. Up_.”

Oikawa froze in shock, as did the rest of the tributes, the audience, and Takinoue. Kenma dropped the microphone on the floor, a horrifyingly loud echo causing the audience to flinch, and he turned his back and walked down the stairs. No one said anything as he re-entered the tribute room. He went to stand by his district partner, his body trembling slightly, his face pale and clammy.

Oikawa clenched his jaw, his fingernails digging into his skin as he stared at the ground. His gut twisted around itself. Kenma was right. His entire life he had thought of the Games as a test of his strength, as an opportunity for glory. But now, with Iwaizumi’s life on the line… It was _sick_. Why hadn’t he realized before, that this was all for the Capitol’s entertainment? They were so ignorant they couldn’t even recognize real pain and death staring back at them; could they be any more brainwashed? Could _he?_ He had gone along with the tradition – and how many others besides Kenma shared the same feelings of resentment? _All_ outside the Career pack?

Iwa’s hand squeezed his shoulder, interrupting his distress and pulling his focus to the boy.

“Snap out of it,” he hissed.

Oikawa blinked.

“Did you hear what Kenma said?”

“I did.”

“But, he’s right, Iwa, don’t you realize – “

“That this is wrong? Yes. I’ve always thought it. But we can’t act phased. Not now. Though Kenma is right, we can’t do anything to change the situation. We have to make the most of it. One of us has to win.”

Oikawa felt tears spill over his cheeks. “Iwa,” he breathed, lower lip trembling.

He buried his face into the boy’s chest. Iwa stroked his hair, stared hard at the ground, and wondered how in hell they would get through this mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kenma dropping the fucking mic


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not dead, I promise. This fic is not dead, I promise. November consisted of putting all my time into finishing my applications for college. I know it's been nearly a month, BUT HERE YOU GO. BLESS YOU ALL FOR STICKING WITH ME.
> 
> Also, feel free to nag me on tumblr (taintedlyrium.tumblr.com). God knows I could always use more motivation to write.

The training facilities were much larger than Kenma expected. Not only were there vast shelves of weapons and dozens of private training rooms (with computer generated enemies, Kenma learned, though they reacted like real people), but several areas dealt with the art of camouflage, shelter and fire building, as well as recognizing edible and poisonous food that would be found in this year’s arena.

Kenma already knew he’d be steering clear of the weapons. Ukai told him to survive, not kill – so survive he would.

The atmosphere was tense. The Career tributes grabbed weapons immediately and began practicing (more like showing off, Kenma thought). Except for Kuroo.

“You should learn how to fight, you know,” he commented as he sat with Kenma by the camouflage area. Kenma frowned and began painting his face, trying to mirror the forest foliage in the pictures they had been given. Kuroo was working on his arms.

“…Don’t wanna,” he mumbled.

“Kenma. You need to be able to defend yourself. I won’t…I won’t always be there to protect you. I have to stay with the Careers.”

“You _have_ to?”

Kuroo sighed and continued to paint his arms. He took a moment to scoot closer to Kenma, so their shoulders were almost touching, and reached his fingers out toward the boy.

“Missed a spot,” he whispered, drawing a line of paint over Kenma’s cheek. He froze.

“…What are you doing?”

Kuroo only smiled. “Let me teach you how to fight.”

“…Okay.”

* * *

 

Tsukishima had quickly come to realize how much he despised all of the tributes. The Careers were arrogant asses, the others whimpering cowards.

“Tsukki.” Kiyoko’s soft voice caught his attention. She stood next to him with crossed arms, observing the training facilities. The day started twenty minutes ago, and they had done nothing but watch. The Careers were good, there was no doubting that. The District 2 lovebirds especially – Oikawa hit every target with every knife he threw, and Iwaizumi knew how to handle several weapons. Though, Tsukki noted with interest a rivalry blooming between Oikawa and Kageyama, the younger tribute from District 3. Both used throwing knives as their primary weapon, and both were exceptionally proud of their talent, feeling the need to show off to each other. Loudly and repeatedly.

Kiyoko, however, had nudged him to draw his attention to the orange-haired ball of energy, Hinata. The kid seemed to have no shred of self-consciousness; he was training with the _Careers_ for fuck’s sake, and none of them seemed to approve. But no one said anything.

Hinata was not skilled with weaponry. He fumbled with the swords, maces, clubs, and even bows for mere minutes at a time before trying something else. Tsukki found it painful to watch, in a horridly amusing sort of way. But when Hinata began to test out the throwing knives, Kageyama resisted.

“ _What are you doing?_ ” he hissed. “You aren’t a Career. You’re from _District 10_. You don’t belong here.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice in that,” Hinata replied, unfazed, as he threw a knife at a stationary target. It missed by a foot.

Tsukki grimaced. Since Kozume’s speech the atmosphere around the contestants had changed noticeably. He applauded the blonde in his mind – everyone thought it, and someone finally said it. Though he doubted it would change the perspective of the Capitol citizens, it was definitely a wakeup call for everyone participating in the Games.

Kozume, like most of the contestants, wasn’t bothering with the weapons yet. Let the Careers show off and get out all their steam. Except for – yes, Tsukki had noticed earlier that Kuroo and Kozume wore the same bracelet. Kozume’s father was from District 1, after all; he wondered if it was Kozume’s home district. If so, Kuroo was probably his longtime friend. Which would explain why they were practically glued at the hip.

“Leave him alone, Kageyama.” It took Tsukki a moment to remember the small one’s name. Nishinoya. “He’s just excited.”

Kageyama clicked his tongue and walked away. Hinata beamed at Nishinoya and embraced him, shocking the smaller boy.

“Tsukki,” Kiyoko repeated, finally dropping her arms to her sides. “Let’s start.”

They walked over to the weapons field. While neither of them were well versed in weaponry, Tsukishima knew he was better than Hinata. They went for perhaps the most obscure weapon choices – Kiyoko picked up a scythe, and Tsukki wrapped a hand around a whip.

The Careers eyed them both. Tsukki found he really didn’t care. They went into one of the simulation rooms and started up one of the matches. It wasn’t terribly realistic in terms mortality – a single hit with the whip end would dissipate the digital body.

The entire thing ran five full minutes. Neither he nor Kiyoko let a body past.

“Wow! I’ve never seen anyone use a whip like that!” Tsukki reeled back as he stepped out of the simulation room, blinking rapidly. A small, freckled boy stood in front of him, grinning in awe. A bow was swung over his shoulder. “I’m Tadashi Yamaguchi,” he introduced quickly.

“Kei Tsukishima,” Tsukki responded automatically, pulling his lips tight and composing himself.

“You’re so cool! Can I call you Tsukki?”

“Um…”

Yamaguchi didn’t need an answer. “Tsukki,” he said, smiling.

Tsukishima could hear Kiyoko snickering next to him, and he sighed deeply. He gestured to the bow around Yamaguchi’s back, then to the simulation room.

“You gonna use that?”

“Oh, no. Not today. It’s too soon.”

Tsukki frowned and tilted his head in confusion. “Too soon?”

“Let the Careers do the intimidating. I’ll practice before the evaluations.”

He spoke with confidence, and Tsukki admired that he hadn’t given up; part of the boy clung to some hope that he would survive this, win this. But behind the words his body trembled, his eyes unsure.

* * *

 

Kuroo had left him momentarily at the call of his district partner. Kenma sat on the floor with a screen in front of him. It flashed photos of plants at a rapid speed, some in full color, some just the silhouette. Kenma had to match each picture with a description of its properties. He was getting better, and was able to identify twenty-five different flora species that would be in the arena. Which ones were poisonous, which ones had healing properties, which ones were edible. Not many others were circling the booths, and Kenma had to wonder how they planned to stay alive. The Careers especially – all of them were focused on combat training. They couldn’t kill the _plants_ to win. And slowly, as Kenma held more and more of them with contempt, he felt a glimmer of hope that he wouldn’t die. Perhaps…perhaps he could outlive them. How ironic. Winning the Games without violence.

“How’s it going?”

Taketora sat next to him, a wide grin on his face. He had been practicing with all sorts of knives and daggers. Kenma had been watching out of the corner of his eye, and admitted that he had improved significantly.

“I’ve been meaning to stick with you, but that Kuroo guy has been on you like a fish hook.”

“You could stay anyway.”

“He’s intimidating…”

Kenma smiled and shrugged. “Not once you get to know him.” He matched up the last plant and the screen congratulated his success. “Come,” he commanded. “I want you to know how to do all these things too. Remember what Ukai said?”

“Yeah.” Taketora scooted closer to him. “So teach me.”

Kenma didn’t make it very far before they were approached by another – the ginger, Shouyou Hinata.

“Woah!” He leaned down without regard for their personal space. “That’s amazing! I’ve never seen anyone know plants that well! It’s like – wow!”

Kenma froze and fixed Hinata with a panicked stare.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” Taketora interjected, frowning deeply. The boy wasn’t fazed.

“Can you teach me too?”

Kenma narrowed his eyes. He wrapped a hand around Taketora’s wrist and stood up, pulling his partner with him.

“Don’t expect help in the arena,” was all he offered in explanation as he walked away.

 

***

 

Hinata came back the second day. Kenma sat at the knot-tying station, memorizing which knots were best for creating snares and traps, hands working deftly with the rope and twine around him. Hinata plonked down next to the yellow-haired boy, who spared him a sidelong glance before refocusing on his own work. Hinata carefully began to tie the twine in a knot, glancing often at Kenma, tongue peeking out in concentration. Kenma swiftly realized that Hinata was imitating him.

“Why are you copying me?”

“Because it was wrong of me to ask you for help, but that doesn’t mean I can’t learn by observing!” Hinata smiled. Kenma’s eyes flicked down, but he didn’t move to stand up and leave.

“Are you trying to be my friend?”

“Of course! I want to be. Though you don’t seem to really like the idea, so… But…do you want to? Be friends?”

Kenma didn’t reply, but Hinata didn’t give up this time.

“So can I watch you?”

Kenma turned his whole body to face the ginger, opening his hands to show the technique he used.

“You have to thread the wire through the twine, here,” he explained, using his finger to indicate the spot on Hinata’s wire. “And then you run it over to a tree, theoretically, and if an animal triggers this,” he pointed to an arrangement of sticks tied loosely together, “the trap will fall and the tree…” He trailed off, seeing that Hinata had his fingers stuck in the knot.

He spent two hours trying to teach Hinata to make a stick snare. He eventually made one, but didn’t remember how he did it, so they started all over again, slowly, to see if Hinata could make sense of what he had done.

“Ooooh!” Hinata cheered, knocking the stick over that triggered his snare. “So because the wires are like, like this, and the noose is attached to the stick, so, so it goes _whoosh_ into the air! And bang! Dinner!”

Kenma raised his eyebrows at Hinata’s loss for proper vocabulary, but smiled faintly. This was going against everything he believed about the pre-Games, and yet…

“Yeah,” he agreed softly.

“Thanks!” Hinata chirped, flashing Kenma another bright smile. Kenma nodded.

“Hey, Kenma!” It was Taketora, standing next to Kuroo. Kuroo had been insisting he spend most of his time with Kenma, which meant spending most of it with Taketora as well. They had become, more or less, friends. If this were _any_ other situation Kenma would be ecstatic. But…he simply tried not to think too hard about it. “Let’s get lunch!”

Hinata stood up and dusted his pants off, though there was no dirt or dust to speak of. “See ya around, Kenma!” He waved and bounded over to his district partner.

“See ya,” Kenma said softly, watching Hinata’s back as he left.

* * *

 

The third day of training rolled around quickly, and with it, evaluations. Tsukishima had a raging headache. He hadn’t been able to sleep much the past couple days; the concept of one’s inevitable death tended to do that. The other tributes weren’t exactly helping, either. Their incessant chattering was grinding on his nerves, only exacerbating the problem.

“…just saying, _Tobio-chan_ , you’ll never be as good as me if you can’t perfect the _wrist flick_.” Oikawa smirked at Kageyama.

The latter growled, springing to his feet, mouth open in what would no-doubt be a loud and obnoxiously stupid retort.

His partner, Sugawara, pulled him back down onto the bench. He flashed a grimace at Oikawa and Iwaizumi. “I apologize for my partner,” he said quietly. Tsukki didn’t mind him so much.

Sawamura, the tribute from District 1, gave Sugawara a sympathetic glance. “At least he doesn’t flirt with everything that moves,” he offered.

Sugawara laughed. “I suppose there’s that.”

They began chatting animatedly, like old friends.

Tsukishima felt a twinge of irritation. He didn’t understand why everyone felt the need to be so _friendly_ to everyone else, like this was some sort of holiday get together. They were all incredibly foolish.

Opposite to the interviews, District 12 was called for the first evaluation. Tsukki watched Yamaguchi entered the sealed room. Out of all the contestants, he was most interested to see Yamaguchi’s score. Earlier in the day, as promised, he had practiced in the simulation room, and Tsukki had been downright blown away. His reflexes were better than his own and he hit every target with alarming precision. The boy had an exaggerated cowlick, childish freckles, and yet… _when had he become so cool?_

He hoped Yama (had he already moved on to nicknames? _Fuck_.) received a high score – though not a top score, as that would make him a target for the Careers. Speaking of, they had all bonded over the past three days, much to Tsukki’s disgust. Oikawa and Kageyama still had pissing contests every ten minutes, and Kuroo seemed reluctant to actually be a part of the pack. He clung to Kozume like the boy would drop dead at any second.

Each contestant was allotted five minutes to showcase their skills to the judges, and the final scores would be released about half an hour after they all presented. Which meant they had to stay in this blasted room for two hours and forty minutes. Tsukki would rather stab himself now than endure over two fucking _hours_ of Kageyama insulting the general populace.

Yamaguchi sat with Tsukishima and Kiyoko nearly the entire time, like he belonged with them. Honestly, Tsukki wouldn’t mind teaming up with the kid. He could always use someone watching his back, since Kageyama and Oikawa gave off a vibe that they would hunt down the other tributes. And Tsukki planned to stay alive as long as possible.

* * *

 

“Kenma Kozume.”

Kenma looked up, frowning deeply at the intercom. He was sitting in Kuroo’s lap, something that felt utterly normal. Something they had done back in District 1. It earned them a few stares, especially from the Careers (who were mostly looking at Kuroo with downright disgust now), but ignored them.

“Your turn,” Taketora mumbled beside them. He was fidgeting nervously, picking at his nails and bouncing his leg.

“Do you remember how to use that knife?” Kuroo asked as Kenma stood up. Kenma nodded.

“Yeah…I’ll be fine. I know what I’m gonna do.”

Both gave him strange looks, but he was already walking into the room.

It was spacious, grey, and almost completely empty. A weapon rack resided in one corner with heavy sacks, piles of rope, and paints. The judges were above the actual room in some sort of observatory booth. The plush chairs and laden tables that Kenma had become used to decorated the room, and it was obvious the judges were past caring about the contestants. Of course. They would only pay attention to the first few tributes and the Careers – everyone else was deemed unimportant. They didn’t even look down as Kenma entered. One popped open a bottle of champagne and laughed mirthfully.

Kenma strode to the center of the room, where a padded mat lay, and sat cross-legged on it. He fixed the judges with a blank stare, the kind he had mastered over the years so people would stop talking to him. And he didn’t move. It was a similar tactic to his interview, but this time there would be no speech. He wanted to show the Captiol that he wasn’t about to play along.

Three minutes of his session went by before the judges even turned an eye. But once the first man took notice, he froze. The others followed suit. After a few seconds, they broke into hushed whispers, glancing at Kenma frequently. Then the timer rang, and Kenma stood and walked out without a word. The door shut with a loud echo behind him, and he went straight to Kuroo and Taketora.

“Well?” his partner asked, leaning forward eagerly.

“We’ll just have to see,” was his only response. “Don’t worry about it.”

A painstaking hour and twenty minutes later, the screens in the room flickered to life and all twenty-four pairs of eyes trained on them. The scores ranged from 1 to 12, with 12 being the highest score possible, marking one as dangerous and a target for others to take down first.

They flashed by slowly. Kenma only took note of a few.

_Tadashi Yamaguchi: 10_

_Takanobu Aone: 10_

_Shouyou Hinata: 6_

_Kei Tsukishima: 8_

_Asahi Azumane: 10_

_Yui Michimiya: 10_

_Wakatoshi Ushijima: 11_

_Kenma Kozume: 12_

Kenma swallowed thickly. A 12. They gave him a 12. He had expected it, but his stomach twisted in nerves. He could feel the stares of everyone else. He could see Taketora and Kuroo’s gaping mouths as they realized what this meant. He risked a glance at Kageyama and Oikawa; both were looking his way. Kageyama with confusion and Oikawa with a grin. A shiver ran down his spine.

“What did you do?” Tora hissed. Kenma simply shook his head.

_Koushi Sugawara: 7_

_Tobio Kageyama: 11_

_Hajime Iwaizumi: 8_

_Tooru Oikawa: 12_

Kenma’s breath caught in his throat. He locked eyes with Oikawa. The Career grinned, a deadly glint in his eyes, and Kenma realized he shouldn’t have been frightened of Kageyama. Oikawa would be the one to kill him.

_Daichi Sawamura: 9_

_Tetsurou Kuroo: 10_

The screens went black. A silence suffocated the crowd. Honestly, Kenma was surprised there had been so many high scores among the “lesser” districts, though they were balanced out with plenty of low ones.

The lights dimmed as they began to shuffle out. They all entered the arena tomorrow. And in the darkness, Kenma swore he could feel Oikawa’s gaze fixed on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing for Tsukki is the most entertaining thing in the world, he's so fucking sassy. xD Also, we finally get to the arena next chapter!!! Hurrah, the plot is moving forward!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE I'M NOT DEAD. But I've finally accepted that my life will constantly be a mess, and I'll just write through it. I hope you guys continue to stick around to see this update!!!

Arms threw him to the ground roughly. His breath left him all at once and a knee dug into his chest, pinning him down. Oikawa leered, a grin marring his face as he wrapped his hands around Kenma’s neck. He thrashed wildly, gasping for breath but finding none. The edges of his vision began to blur. Kenma could feel his heartbeat in his ears; his eyes were locked with Oikawa’s, and he knew he would die –

“Kenma!”

He shot up, eyes wide, gasping desperately and clutching his throat. Taketora hovered over him, eyebrows furrowed.

“Are you okay?”

A deep breath. Then another. And another. He was alive. Alive and safe in a soft bed, with Tora…

“Bad dream,” he muttered, letting his hands drop and avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah, I didn’t sleep well either…”

Kenma swallowed thickly. The Games were today.

It was strange; they had been preparing for the past week for this moment, but it never felt _real_. All the revelry and grandeur created an aspect of charm and fakeness. Like it was just a game.

It _was_ a Game.

This one just ended with death.

“You should get up,” Tora muttered, turning his head toward the door. “We have to meet with Ukai and our stylists, then…it’s all over.” He forced a smile.

Kenma didn’t reply. Taketora wasn’t one to need empty words of comfort. Both of them new the dangers, knew the outcome. Their own mortality hung over their heads as a constant reminder.

He forced himself out of bed, throwing on clothes halfheartedly (he would be forced to change later anyway).

Ukai and Scarecrow sat at the dining table, waiting. Kenma did his best to avoid their gaze as he took a seat across from them. Ukai cleared his throat.

“Kenma. Taketora. You…are the first tributes I’ve ever had. And I’m… _fuck_ , I’m just as scared as you are. I don’t have much to stay…just…survive. Survive, dammit, until…” He trailed off, eyes cast down at the table. He bit his lower lip. Scarecrow frowned, taking Ukai’s hand and giving it a reassuring squeeze. “Until…” A sigh. “Your father told me to keep my mouth shut, I’m sorry…”

“My father?” Kenma jolted up, eyes wide and trained on Ukai. “You’ve spoken to my father? When? How is he? ‘Until’ what? What’s going on?”

“Your father is fine, Kenma. He’s worried about you. He…doesn’t want you to die. He doesn’t plan to _let_ you die.”

“He’s taking me out of the Games?”

“No. He can’t do that…”

“Then what? Does he think he can start a revolution?”

Silence. Kenma gaped.

“He _does?_ ”

Ukai nodded. “I’m not confident it’ll work. But don’t give up hope in the arena, okay? Both of you. There’s a chance you can both live. And Kuroo, as well…”

Kenma sat in shock. A revolution. His father had spoken many times of one, but said he could never organize it. It’d be shut down immediately. What changed his mind?

_You did. Your life is in danger. He has no other choice but to act._

“A revolution?” Taketora nearly shouted. Ukai waved his hands wildly, eyes wide. Tora lowered his voice to a whisper. “A revolution? We can live?”

“I can’t guarantee that,” Ukai hissed through gritted teeth. “You have to stay alive until we shut down the arena. Got it? Don’t. Die.”

Taketora nodded stiffly, and Kenma shrank in his seat. His dream ran through his head again, and he remembered Oikawa’s smirk from the previous night. If he could even consider surviving until a possible rescue, he’d have to avoid Oikawa at all costs.

 

***

 

“Not very stylish outfits, are they?” Ageha sighed, crossing her arms as her eyes raked Kenma’s small body, the tight suit clinging to his nonexistent muscle. The arena outfits this year were simple grey and camouflage green, insulated to protect against the slight chill of the forest yet tight enough to showcase the bodies of the contestants – appealing or not. There would be no makeup, no glamour to fool the Capitol. Just the suit and a token, if necessary.

Kuroo’s charm bracelet dangled from his wrist.

“You ready, dear?”

Kenma managed a short, harsh laugh. Ageha forced a smile.

“Kenma. Listen. You must do all you can to survive. There won’t be a winner of this Games.”

His eyes widened. “Are you…? Did you talk to my father too…?”

“Yes.”

She hustled Kenma into the tube that took the contestants to the arena. Her face was neutral now, eyes stern. The glass doors slid shut, trapping him in the small space.

“Survive.”

The tube shot up before he could formulate a response.

The arena emerged all around him. Twenty-four platforms rose as he did, in a large circle surrounding the Cornucopia. It felt as if a hand was constricting his heart. Kenma couldn’t breathe. His eyes jumped around the contestants in a panic, looking for Kuroo and Tora – there was Tora. Three platforms to his left.

A loud ticking sound echoed above them.

_10, 9, 8, 7…_

He couldn’t find Kuroo. Twenty-four was a larger number than Kenma had ever realized. He hadn’t actually paid attention to half the tributes before, but now they were all _staring him in the face_. They could all _kill_ him.

_3, 2, 1_

_Fuck_.

Chaos erupted around him. Over half of the contestants swarmed toward the Cornucopia, and the others, the smart ones, sprinted in the other direction. Disappeared into the forest. Kenma followed their lead, turning on his heel – but he only made it fifty meters before he froze, whipping his head around frantically. Tora. Tora wasn’t with him. Tora was –

His eyes darted around the horde by the Cornucopia.

“ _Tora!_ ” he screeched.

His partner paused and turned, locking eyes with Kenma. He seemed to understand and changed direction immediately. But Kenma’s gaze was ripped from Tora by an arcing flash of metal. Ushijima, the District 6 tribute, swung a mace with full force at one of the others. It connected directly with his head. Kenma watched in horror as blood sprayed from the boy’s skull and collapsed to the ground. A canon shot echoed throughout the arena.

“Oh god. Oh _god_ ,” he gasped.

He couldn’t fully register what he witnessed before he saw Kageyama punch a knife through another tribute’s throat. The tip protruded through the back of his neck. Another canon. Kenma nearly vomited.

He took a step back, mouth agape, heart pounding so fast he could no longer feel it. A canon fired again. He did not see the death.

He heard Tora’s voice and almost turned to flee into the forest. But he saw Oikawa. He arose slowly from his knees, like some sort of demon, ripping a knife from the dead tribute’s chest beneath him. His entire front was splattered in blood. He turned his head, a _grin_ on his face, and stared straight at Kenma. Then he was sprinting toward the blonde.

This was it. The end. His body refused to move. His dream came flooding back to him all at once, and for the first time, he felt death in his lungs and mind and heart.

“ _Kenma!_ ”

Tora’s voice, but Oikawa was already upon him. They were on the ground. Kenma couldn’t breathe. Oikawa’s hands were wrapped around his neck. His lips were moving, soundless words spilling from them. Kenma felt oddly calm, like this was supposed to happen. This was okay.

But it didn’t last – Oikawa was suddenly ripped from him, and he could breathe again, and his body shuddered violently.

“ _Run! Run, you idiot! Kenma! Go!_ ”

Tora dragged him to his feet and tugged him away in a panic, but those were Kuroo’s words. He had Oikawa pinned to the ground, tears spilling over his cheeks.

Kenma ran.

* * *

 

They set up base around the Cornucopia. Oikawa declared himself “leader of the pack”, but most of the Careers were hesitant to let him take charge. Daichi assumed the role of “opposing leader”, and Kuroo would back him with everything he had. He couldn’t resist shooting glares at Oikawa while sharpening his katanas with a whetstone – both taken from the Cornucopia.

“What?” Oikawa finally snapped, frowning at the dark-haired boy. “Are you still mad I tried to kill blondie? That’s what we’re _supposed_ to do, unless you’ve forgotten why you’re here, _Tetsurou_.”

“You don’t touch Kenma,” he growled. “Okay? That’s rule number one.”

“You don’t make the rules.”

“And I suppose you do?”

“I –“

“Shut up. Both of you.” Daichi loomed over them, twirling a dagger around his fingers in a threatening manner. “Until we’re in a position where we aren’t outnumbered by the other tributes, we cannot afford to be fighting.”

Oikawa bristled. “Who do you think you –“

“Drop it, Oikawa. He’s right. Besides, I’d prefer to let someone a little more level-headed take charge. If we even _need_ a leader.”

“Iwa!”

“I’m just being honest.”

Iwaizumi’s glare was enough to shut them all up. Kuroo settled back into a frown and looked around their camp. He applauded themselves for staking out the Cornucopia – they had enough supplies to last a week in the arena, even with eight of them in total. Daichi, himself, Oikawa, Iwaizumi, Kageyama, Sugawara, Nishinoya, and Tanaka. A decent group, by Kuroo’s standards. They were all beyond competent when it came to fighting skills, but Oikawa and Kageyama both had egos larger than their social skills. Daichi, Sugawara, and Iwaizumi he all respected. He hadn’t formed an opinion on Nishinoya and Tanaka yet – they were both very similar, and obviously quite close.  And loud. They’d make Kenma uncomfortable.

Kenma. His hands trembled and the whetstone almost fell to the grass. The _idiot_. Did he _want_ to die? He hadn’t made a single move to run, just accepted death as Oikawa choked him… Kuroo couldn’t fathom losing Kenma _again_.

“There are still nineteen of us. We could have done better.” Kuroo’s thoughts were interrupted by Kageyama.

“You only killed one, Tobio-chan. Don’t complain.”

“So did you! And Iwaizumi! What were the rest of you doing, twiddling your thumbs? I’ve seen blood baths that took out half of the contestants.”

“Fucking Christ, kid, the other tributes aren’t _rodents_. They’re people.”

The camp fell silent, and all eyes were on Kuroo.

“What, don’t tell me blondie’s words actually _g_ o _t_ to you.”

“Shut up, Oikawa. I saw you after his speech. He got to you too.”

“So what would you have us do,” Kageyama interjected, “lay down and let them kill us?”

Kuroo curled his lip in distaste but didn’t respond.

“Okay. Okay…” Sugawara moved to stand in-between them all. “No, not as many peopled died that could have. There’s nothing we can do about it. Oikawa – leave Kenma alone. He poses no threat.”

“He scored a 12.”

“Bullshit. You and I both know the Gamemakers only gave him that score in retaliation for his speech. It’s a miracle he wasn’t killed on the spot. The Gamemakers _want_ him to be a target.”

“Which I see no problem with. It’s one more tribute out of the way.”

“Don’t you see how –“

Daichi placed a hand on Sugawara’s shoulder, shaking his head. The pale-haired boy sighed in frustration.

“You’ll understand soon enough.”

“Why is everyone ganging up on me, huh? Because I’m the only one with any sense? We can’t all hold hands and sing Kumbaya, pretending this thing isn’t a fucking death trap.”

“Oikawa.”

It seemed Iwaizumi was the only person capable of shutting Oikawa up. Or making him see reason. Kuroo was suddenly extremely glad to have him here.

“Let’s just get some sleep,” Oikawa muttered. “We’re all tired.”

“Suga and I will take first watch,” Daichi declared as they began to settle down. The use of a nickname didn’t escape Kuroo, and he cocked an eyebrow, watching the two carefully. They certainly got along well for only knowing each other a week.

As darkness descended upon the arena, the dome above them lit up, and a screen flickered to life where the countdown had been visible earlier. Names and faces appeared. The identities of those who died that day.

 

_Chikara Ennoshita, District 6_

_Yuutarou Kindaichi, District 9_

_Akira Kunimi, District 9_

_Sou Inuoka, District 10_

_Morisuke Yaku, District 12_

 

Kuroo regretted it now, but it was him who had killed the District 12 boy, Yaku. It had been so easy… The sword pierced his flesh so smoothly. Slid right through him like…like… Kuroo bit down on his lip, trying to push the memory away. The look on Yaku’s face would haunt him as long as he still dreamed. Absolute fear. It felt so _personal_. In that moment he felt closer to Yaku than he had ever felt with Kenma. For Oikawa and Kageyama to do it so easily…did they have the same thoughts as him? Or did they honestly not care? He shuddered, wondering how he was going to live with himself in the days to come.

* * *

 

“Kenma?”

Kenma brushed his fingers against his throat. The skin was still tender, bruises likely forming from the force of Oikawa’s grip.

“Kenma!”

That grip… He felt death in that moment. Felt it creeping in like the black spots in his vision, widening to swallow him whole. And yet, he’d done nothing.

“ _Kenma!_ ” Tora’s voice cut through his thoughts at last.

Kenma looked up, surprised to see Tora glaring down at him, his cheeks pink with anger, lips pursed as he tried to bottle up the frustration bubbling to the surface.

They were hidden under a rocky cliff face, thick bushes offering them some shelter from any prying eyes. When had they gotten there? Tora sighed heavily and turned his head to the steep slope up to the forested area. They were near the edge of the arena, Kenma assumed, and hopefully safe from the Careers.

“You didn’t move,” Tora said quietly. Kenma licked his lips and swallowed thickly. “Why?”

Kenma couldn’t bring himself to answer.

“ _Why?_ ”

He began to pick at his fingernails, avoiding eye contact with Tora.

“Before…when we first arrived at the Capitol…” Kenma knew where this would go. “You said you would jump. Do you…do you actually…?”

“That was nearly a week ago,” Kenma whispered.

“And? Has anything changed?” When he didn’t receive a response, he began to pace. “We’re supposed to survive. Just remember that, okay? Ukai will get us out of here. It’ll all work out.”

Music began to play. Kenma recognized it as the same music they played every night in the arena from the other games he watched – it was the melody for the death montage. Momentarily distracted, he and Tora peeked out of their small cave to watch the holographic dome above them. Five faces were projected, accompanied with a name and district number. Kenma hadn’t interacted with any of them, but he had seen three of them die. He placed a hand over his mouth at the thought, tears threatening to spill over his cheeks.

Ushijima had killed Inuoka. District 10. Kenma realized with sudden horror that the boy was Hinata’s district partner. He wondered where Hinata was now, if he was with anyone, how he was handling his partner’s death… A quick glance at Tora constricted his chest. How would _he_ handle it if…?

 _Stop. Remember the others. Someone has to._ Kunimi. He was the one who had Kageyama’s knife punched through his throat. And Ennoshita; he had been killed by Oikawa. Kenma hadn’t witnessed the deaths of the other two, but he forced himself to remember the names anyway.

“Hey, Kenma, I’m… I’m sorry I got mad.” Tora sat down, pulling his knees up to his chest in a likeness of Kenma, who only frowned. “I’m just overwhelmed. It’s actually happening. We’re in the arena, and five of us just died…it’s…”

“I know,” Kenma finally responded. “You don’t have to say anything. It’s a lot to take in. I think we should just…go to sleep.”

“You should. I’ll stay up for a bit, make sure no one comes down here… I can wake you up and we can take turns, yeah?”

“…okay.”

He wanted to dream of his mother. Of his life back in District 1. Of Kuroo. But all that came to him were vivid images of death. Oikawa’s grin. Kageyama’s knife. Tora’s body in his arms, the light fading from his eyes as he choked on his own blood, an arrow through his neck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be focused around IwaOi and TsukkiYama =) Hope you enjoyed!!! Bug me on tumblr at taintedlyrium.tumblr.com =3


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